


Rara Avis

by Sinful Words (MontanaHarper)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: F/M, POV Original Character, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-02
Updated: 2004-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Sinful%20Words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You meet someone unexpected in a New York nightclub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rara Avis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meghan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Meghan).



You're surprised when he catches your eye across the dance floor; you recognized him at once, and sure as hell didn't expect him to be noticing you, not when he could have his pick of any girl—or boy, for that matter—in the club.

He doesn't approach, though, and you remember an interview where he said he had a hard time making the first move. You've had a couple of peach martinis tonight and the warm buzz is telling you to go for it; after all, what have you got to lose?

You wait until he sits down at the table with his friends (the Hobbits, and really the thought is exciting and terrifying at the same time) and then you take a seat at the bar. A gesture brings the bartender to you and you order yourself another drink, and then indicate the Hobbits' table.

"The brunet," you say, "Elijah Wood. What's he drinking?" The bartender gives you a skeptical look, like you might be from a tabloid, intent on making up a story, so you continue, "Whatever it is, I'd like to have one sent over to him."

Now he nods and you wonder how often people do this kind of thing. You've seen it in the movies, but never done it before. Still, you know the protocol, and so you watch as the waitress crosses the room and sets the beer—Heineken it looks like from here—down in front of Elijah. He says something to her ("I didn't order this.") and she turns and points to you. When he looks, you raise your own glass to him and smile.

He smiles back.

Then he picks up the bottle, stands, and starts across the room and while that's definitely one of the possible directions this scenario can go, you're surprised.

And a little panicky, because that's Elijah fucking Wood who's going to be standing next to you in just a few seconds, and what are you supposed to _say_ to him? Deep breath.

Then he's there, standing in front of you, and really is as gorgeous close up as he is in the movies. When he leans in, though, to make himself heard over the heavy bass line of the current song, you notice that his skin's not quite as flawless as it looks in photographs and that's somehow reassuring.

"Hi," he says. "I'm Elijah."

And you really want to laugh at that, because it's so sweet that he thinks there an English-speaking female between twelve and forty who doesn't know who he is, but instead you just introduce yourself, resisting the urge to tell him that you know exactly who he is. It occurs to you that maybe it gets tiring, being wanted for who you are rather than who _you_ are. You may be just as guilty as everyone else when it comes to having developed a crush on him without really knowing him, but it doesn't have to stay that way.

You take a sip of your drink and he tips the beer bottle—definitely Heineken—up to his mouth and swallows and you're caught up in the line of his throat and the curve of his neck so that you almost miss it when he says, "You want to dance?"

And that's a dilemma, because you really would love to go out on the dance floor with him, but you've _seen_ him dance and...well, it's a good thing he went for a career as an actor instead. But if you say no, then he'll probably just walk away, back to Dom and Billy, and you'll have blown your chance. You've already delayed a little long and you can see his expression shifting, closing off, and so you decide fuck it, it was being forward that got you this far, maybe it'll keep working in your favor, so you smile.

"Actually," you say, "It's getting too loud and crowded here. I was thinking of going somewhere a little quieter, if you'd like to come with me...?" There, you've said it. He'll either think you're a slut and turn you down, or the two of you will go...oh hell, where? Somewhere. Anywhere more private would be fabulous.

Then he grins and it's all you can do not to giggle madly as he says, "Sure. Let me just let my friends know I'm going, okay?" And you barely have time to nod before he's heading across the room again, half-dancing to the beat as he goes.

Billy and Dom look over at you and you try to look nice and non-threatening and as little like a stalker as you can, because if they decide you're a freak, there's no way they're going to let Elijah go anywhere with you. But Billy just smiles at you and Dom...well, leers is really the only word for it...until Elijah smacks him playfully in the head, and before you quite have time to register your good luck, he's back at your side, every inch the solicitous gentleman.

Which kind of gives you pause, because maybe he's really planning to find a quieter place to go—a restaurant or something. Except it's really kind of silly of you to be worrying that Elijah Wood might _only_ want to have a quiet coffee and conversation with you, now isn't it? When the evening began, you hadn't even seen him in person, let alone spoken to him, so anything that happens is great.

As soon as you get outside, though, where you can actually speak at a normal volume, he says, "So, did you have anywhere in particular in mind?"

You know this is where, if this were a movie, you'd say something like, "How about my place?" and then—depending on the MPAA rating—the scene would either fade to black or continue on to a sexy-yet-tasteful love scene.

Except you can't, so you're forced to admit, "I really don't know the city very well. I'm here visiting friends."

But fate's apparently determined to not let the night be ruined, because Elijah says, "I don't live far from here. It's such a gorgeous night, we could walk to my place and I can show you some of the city along the way."

And so the two of you walk, Elijah pointing out everything from hot clubs to historic landmarks to famous movie locations, and by the time you reach his building you're both talking and laughing comfortably, as if you've known each other for ages.

He smiles at the doorman who ushers you into the classy, yet understated lobby of the apartment building, and again at the elevator operator, but once you're in the hallway with the elevator doors firmly closed behind you, he says, "That's so weird. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. I feel like I'm constantly playing a part."

You nod, because you can understand the feeling of living through something that you thought only happened in movies. Then you realize he's looking at you a little oddly, almost like he's trying to gauge whether his last comment tipped you off as to who he is.

"Relax," you tell him. "I knew who you were before I sent you that drink. You're not the only one who's living with surreal at the moment."

He laughs at that and you hope he's decided that your interaction so far has been comfortable and non-stalkery enough that he's not going to just call you a cab and send you on your way.

"I don't know why I keep expecting people not to recognize me," he says as he's unlocking the door. "Even if you've never seen the movies, you'd have to live in a cave in outer Mongolia to have missed all the hype."

You've thought about it before, how it must be to be part of something that big, that ground-breaking, and you don't know that you envy him at all.

"You seemed to be doing okay at the club tonight," you observe.

He pushes the door closed behind you and steps forward in the darkness. "You mean the absence of teenage girls trying to rip my clothes off?" he asks as the lights come on, and you laugh. "New York is good for that. People who live here tend to leave celebrities alone."

You can feel your face flush at his comments, because leaving him alone is exactly what you _hadn't_ done. He turns to take your coat and your embarrassment must be blatantly obvious, because his expression changes instantly to one of contrition.

"Shit, I didn't mean anything by that. You're really nice, and I'm glad you were willing to go out on a limb and send that beer over." He pauses and looks at you for a moment before continuing, "I'm really not very good with women in non-platonic situations."

You remember reading an interview where he told the interviewer something similar. "Women don't like me as much as I'd like them to," he'd said, and you can completely sympathize with the interviewer's stunned silence, because you can almost hear crickets chirping at this moment.

Finally, you gather yourself enough to say, "But you're smart and well-spoken and gorgeous!" which makes him blush, and you were pretty sure he didn't actually _do_ that, considering the calm and poise with which he handles the most embarrassing situations—like recounting the porn and chocolate story on Leno.

"Thank you." He finally appears to remember that he'd been planning on taking your coat and reaches for it. "Can I get you a drink?" he calls from the depths of a coat closet. "A beer?"

"Sure," you say and follow him as he moves past you into what turns out to be one huge open area that combines living room and kitchen. One entire wall is covered with what have to be custom-made shelves filled with CDs. Stepping over to the nearest shelf, you find yourself at the end of the alphabet: Verbena, The White Stripes, Xiu Xiu.

You glance over your shoulder and watch as Elijah pulls two green bottles out of the built-in refrigerator.

"This is a really great place," you say as he hands you a beer.

He laughs. "I'm not responsible for any of it. My mom picked out the apartment, Sean decorated it, and Hannah makes sure it's clean. I'm pretty much a guest, when I'm here at all," he says.

You point to the CDs. "These are yours, right?" He nods. "That's one hell of a contribution."

"Would you like to listen to something?" he asks. At your affirmative, he pulls a CD from the other end of the shelves and puts it into the stereo, tugging his tie loose and then off over his head as the music starts.

He tosses the tie onto a chair and drops down onto the couch beside you, picking up his beer and taking a drink, then leaning his head back and drumming the fingers of his right hand against his thigh and you recognize the song as "Supervixen" by Garbage.

Elijah starts humming and you can't resist singing along with the chorus, which earns you first a surprised look and then an approving one from him. By the time the song is half over, you're both singing along, loud and enthusiastic and somewhere along the line he moved a lot closer to you, and then the music fades to silence between tracks and he's looking at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth.

At first it's just like in the club: you can't believe that you're sitting on Elijah Wood's couch and he looks like he's about to kiss you, and all you can think is "this is not happening," because that seems so appropriate but it makes you feel like a fangirl, too.

There's something sweetly tentative about the way Elijah kisses you, like he's afraid you'll stop him, tell him that he's misinterpreted the signs. You want to tell him, "No, really, I _do_ want to be here, with you," but that's not the kind of thing you can say, so you try to convey the message with your kiss and your touch, and he seems to understand.

He also seems to be reluctant to push it too much, to move too fast, and so as the CD hits the fifth track (that's got to be at least fifteen minutes, right? long enough to move to the next stage, at least) you reach for the buttons on his shirt and slowly—giving him the chance to pull back, to stop you—start unbuttoning them, never breaking from the kiss. You push the front of his shirt open, feeling his moan against your lips as your fingertips brush against his nipples, and then he has one hand under your shirt, cupping your breast and the other is on your thigh, moving tentatively toward the hem of your skirt.

You shift your legs, giving tacit permission, and scrape your fingernails lightly down his chest as he finds a sensitive spot on your inner thigh. As you find yourself lying back on the couch, with Elijah pressing down onto you, you think maybe this is all happening a little fast but it doesn't matter because he's sliding his fingertips into your panties and all you can think is that you want to feel his cock inside you _now_.

One hand cupped against the front of his jeans confirms that he's hard and as turned on as you are, and then he makes a needy sound in the back of his throat and you arch your hips up, encouraging him to do something, anything—fuck you with his fingers, rip your clothes off and take you right here and now, you don't really care as long as he does _something_.

Pressing with the heel of your hand against the bulge in his jeans, you take a quick, shuddering breath as he simultaneously breaks away from the kiss and slides two fingers into you, his thumb finding your clit with just the right amount of pressure, and fuck, for someone who says he's not good with women, Elijah gives every indication of having enough experience, thankyouverymuch.

Because now you're fucking up against his hand and his denim-covered cock is hard against your thigh and he's pressing kisses and sometimes teeth into your neck and you're about two seconds from coming when he tenses and pulls back just a little with a whispered, "ohfuck," but he doesn't stop the perfect rhythm of his hand and then you're coming, hips arching up off the couch, not bothering to stifle the noises that want to break free.

As you're coming down, relaxing back onto the couch, he slips his fingers from you and puts them—still glistening and wet from your cunt—into his mouth and you are _so_ not done yet; you're not sure you'll ever be done with him.

Then he's pushing himself up, shifting off the couch and standing, but he's grinning down at you so you're pretty sure he's not done either. He catches his lower lip between his teeth and looks on the verge of blushing again, and that's somewhere between endearing and hot.

"Condoms," he says, and now there's definitely a pink tinge across his cheeks. "I'll be right back."

He disappears into what you assume is a bedroom and you take the opportunity to kick your shoes off and drink half of your beer because it's starting to sink in again just where you are and with whom.

When he reappears, his shirt and sneakers are gone and he's looking a little uncertain again, so you crook a finger at him and grin and he moves over to stand in front of you, dropping an unopened box of Trojans on the coffee table. You reach out, unbutton and unzip his jeans. His cock is hard and tenting out the front of his boxers and right this instant you want, more than anything, to find out what he tastes like. So you push the waistband of his boxers down and lick a stripe up the underside of his cock, the flavor saltymusky and the groaned "oh" just too fucking hot.

You look up at him from under your lashes as you slowly suck the head of his cock into your mouth; his eyes flutter closed and he slides one hand around the back of your head, not trying to guide your movements but more like he's looking for something to hold on to, something to keep him from flying apart, and so you slide your mouth further down, the shaft slick and hot and hard against your tongue.

You can almost feel the tension radiating off of him, like he's trying to hold back, trying not to let himself thrust into your mouth, and suddenly it becomes the most important thing in the world to make him lose that control, to push him to the point where all he can think is how much he _wants_.

Between his reactions earlier and how hard he was, still, when he came back from the bedroom, you think it shouldn't be that hard to push him over the edge. You can hear how close he is in the ragged cadence of his breathing, feel it in the trembling of his hands on your head and shoulder, and so you focus on his cock, teasing him with your tongue and teeth, listening to the little noises he makes and letting them guide you until finally,

"Ohfuck...yeah...I'm gonna...."

and he tries to pull back but you've got your left hand against the back of his thigh and you're holding him still as you swallow his cock as far into your throat as you can and then his words are no longer coherent, but are just a long string of consonants and vowels as his hips twitch and he thrusts into your throat, coming in a saltybitter flood, his eyes closed and a look on his face that's somewhere between agony and ecstasy.

The hand on your shoulder is clenched almost painfully, and you think it'd probably be a good idea for him not to be standing up anymore, so you pull him toward the couch and he sits, surprising you by pulling you toward him as he leans back against the arm of the couch.

"C'mere," he says, and then he's stretched out on the couch and you're on top of him and his cock is hard (still? again?) and he's kissing you and you're wondering about the recuperative powers of the average twenty-three-year-old male—but only for a few seconds because between the way his tongue is fucking your mouth and his fingers are playing with your nipple, you're pretty fucking distracted.

You still need to feel his cock sliding into your cunt, hot and hard, but the jeans and boxers need to go first, and so you kneel up and over him, tugging them down and it seems like he's thinking along the same lines, because he doesn't say anything, but merely arches up and helps push them down out of the way.

Then he slides his hands up the outside of your thighs, rucking your skirt up above your hips, and hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties, slipping them down. Taking the hint, you shift until you can push them the rest of the way off and then you move to straddle his hips, his cock pressing against you.

Elijah reaches for the coffee table, fumbling with the box of Trojans until he gets it open and tears one foil packet off the strip. You shift back a little, intending to give him room to put it on, but in doing so you notice that this puts you at the perfect level to lean down and run your tongue across one peaked nipple and so you do.

He drops the condom packet and you resist the urge to laugh, instead tackling the other nipple with a series of licks and gentle nips, feeling him writhe between your legs, his cock twitching against your stomach.

"If you keep doing that," he grinds out, "we're not going to need the condoms."

And while it would be a hell of a lot of fun to make him come again by just playing with his nipples, your original plan will probably be more fun. Not to mention more satisfying for you; you're starting to feel the craving again, the _need_ to be filled, so you sit up and resist the urge to tease him further, instead rescuing the condom packet from where it had fallen on the floor and opening it.

All it takes is a single smooth motion and the condom is rolled down his cock as he arches up into your touch, and then he's got his hands on your hips, drawing you forward, apparently as eager for your cunt as you are for his cock. One hand on the back of the couch and the other steadying his cock against you, you start to slowly lower yourself onto him when he pushes up hard, hands firm on your hips so that the slickhard of his cock is suddenly _there_ , and your surprised "oh" mingles with his "yesss" and then you've discovered a mutual rhythm that's excruciatingly, fabulously slow and intense. He reaches his arms up behind his head, wrapping them over the arm of the couch, apparently using it for leverage as he arches up with firm, measured strokes.

Looking down at Elijah—stretched out beneath you, the muscles of his stomach and arms flexing with each thrust—you think he might be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen: pink-beige nipples hard against the pale skin of his chest, face flushed and sheened with sweat, blue eyes—and _fuck_ are they blue—glittering under half-lowered lids. His lower lip is caught up between his teeth, as though he's focusing every ounce of concentration on you, on the feel of your body around him and on making sure you feel every inch of his cock each time it slides into you.

Between the look and the feel of him, you're so, so close to coming. Canting your hips a little, you reach between your legs and rub your fingertips across your clit with just the right amount of pressure. It hardly takes any time at all before the heat, slow and sweet like honey, builds to overflowing and you're clenching around his cock, and he's stopped mid-thrust, eyes closed and mouth open just slightly as his breathing turns ragged and you can feel the throb of his cock as he comes inside you.

He shifts enough for you to collapse on the couch beside him, and you do, catching your breath while he idly strokes your shoulder. _This is the point,_ you think, _where we have awkward, post-fuck conversation._

But Elijah doesn't show any signs of being uncomfortable with the present situation, nor does he seem to feel the need to talk, so you pick up his abandoned beer from the floor next to the couch and take a drink, then offer it to him. He drinks most of what's left in a couple of quick swallows. As the CD starts to repeat for what you think may be the third time, you look over at the stereo, only to realize the time.

"Shit!" You sit up and reach for your panties. "I had no idea it was that late. I have to go; my friends will be absolutely frantic."

"Here," he trades the beer bottle in his hand for the cordless phone that's sitting on the coffee table and holds it out to you, "do you want to let them know you're okay? Then we'll get you a taxi."

As you talk to your friends, reassuring them that you're safe, that you just lost track of time, and that you'll get a cab back to their place, Elijah's gathering up his clothes, pulling on boxers and jeans, and when you hang up he says, "Let me get a shirt and shoes on and I'll walk you down."

The two of you wait in the lobby as the concierge flags down a cab, and then Elijah's leaning into the backseat to give you one last kiss.

"I had a great time," he says, looking like he's not quite sure that's the right thing to say after a one-night-stand but is absolutely certain that it would be impolite not to say anything.

So you smile at him and say, "Yeah, me too," and settle back into the seat as he closes the door. It was definitely one hell of a night, and one that none of your friends would ever believe. Not that you have any intention of sharing it with them.


End file.
